A Free World
by Vaudevillain
Summary: Harry and Draco meet under unusual circumstances during the Great War.


**A Free World**

The Great War had been prophesised for centuries. An epic struggle between Good and Evil, virtue and vice, greatness and destruction; filled with dramatic duels, cunning ploys, and valour in the face of insurmountable odds. It was to be a Kingmaking war; clean, with a clear victor. It was to be a beautiful triumph, a tribute to justice and peace and honour, the final defeat of the Dark Lord – of Satan, of Darius, of Vlad, Napoleon, and Caligula.

It wasn't.

In the beginning the Good played clean. They stunned, disarmed, captured, and disabled. They detained the dark wizards, kept them as prisoners. They never tortured, never killed. They were Above That. And then Arthur Weasley was killed – then Minerva McGonagall, then Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks. Then William Weasley, and Percival Weasley. Then a dozen more, and after that two dozen. And even more after that.

And then Good stopped, and the real war began.

It was dark, ruthless, and disgusting. Parents were made to kill their children, and children to kill their parents. Paranoia had unsettled even the strongest mind – Zacharias Smith, driven mad with grief, had thrown himself from the Hogwarts parapets. And he was not the first.

Curses were made Forgivable. Torture was a tool, and fear a liquor. Prisoners were made corpses, and mass graves were dug in the hard, black soil. Bitterness was the fuel now, not righteousness. Soon they found themselves unable to distinguish friend from foe; faces blackened with dirt and smoke and dried blood; they all looked alike.

And through it all though, Harry Potter persevered, with Hermione and Ron at his side. He was not above killing – many times had he screamed _Avada Kedavra_ and seen the orphaning green glow strip the life from his enemies – but it still bothered him, seeing the colour vanish from a person's eyes. That, he supposed, was what made him different, the guilt –

– and then he was killed. A curse, sent from across the battlefield. A spark, a flash, a burst of green and he was dead:

Killed by Draco Malfoy.

Death was a relief, and Harry took it in like a fine wine. He absorbed the darkness, the mellifluous warmth of non-being and savoured it. He was aware – consciously, subconsciously; how ever a ethereal mind works – of feeling selfish, for he still had so much work to do, but that feeling was quickly and efficiently overwhelmed by pure, unmitigated absence.

And then, suddenly, he was conscious again – or unconscious, he couldn't tell. Real and illusion had shifted and blended into one unchallenged truth, and he was within it.

And he was sitting in an armchair.

He was in a small room, painted red, with gold moulding along the floors and ceiling. There was no door, and there were no windows. A stumpy chandelier hung from the ceiling, and underneath it was a great big lacquered table the colour of chocolate. Tarnished gold sconces stood out from the walls, a cream-coloured candle burning brightly in each of them. Harry's armchair was a deep burgundy, comfortable and soft (if he truly was feeling anything at all – perhaps he was just imagining, for he knew he was dead but this was so –

"Real?" The voice was low, and troubled. Harry looked up and locked eyes with Draco. Draco was seated in an armchair across the room from Harry. His legs were crossed, and he looked almost refined, wearing a well-cut black shit and black trousers, a stark contrast from the last time Harry had seen him – (before he died? How long ago was that) –a fiery, bloodied warrior, lungs burning silver as he screamed a curse.

"Yes, real," Harry said, though his voice did not sound his own. "I thought I –"

"I thought so too. I _killed_ you, after all. I saw you fall. It was, hmm, satisfying."

"Then where am I?" Harry asks.

"Well, one can only assume: The In-between."

"Purgatory?" Harry knows it's true as he says it.

"Rather," Draco produces a cigarette and begins to smoke it (but not really, since he's Not.)

"Then why are you here?" Harry asks. He feels uncomfortable, or assumes a feeling one closely associates being uncomfortable, in any case.

"That mudblood can get very angry."

"Hermione killed you?"

"Yeah, I suppose she did. Sounds less glamorous that way, though." Draco takes a puff on his cigarette (or does he? Harry can't tell) and then the cigarette is gone, and Draco is standing.

"But she never killed anyone –"

"Should I feel honoured?" Draco asks taking a step towards the cheerfully burning fireplace (but it wasn't there before, was it?) Harry gets up and walks to the fire as well. Draco says: "So, I suppose this is our chance to have a heart to heart then, isn't it?" The flames bend and bounce and shiver. They dance and leap, and seem to cascade across the walls, following their own pattern, disobeying something buried in Harry's non-mind.

"If you want," Harry says. He assumes a feeling of pleasant, distant humour. He likes being dead; a bit uncertain, but very, very comfortable.

Draco reaches into the fire. His pale and slender hands grasp the fire, which slips meaninglessly through his fingers. "I guess we are dead, then." Draco doesn't sound surprised. "Well," he whips around and looks at Harry, "no harm in us have a heart to heart, I guess. Or a, um, ethereal heart to subconscious heart. Or whatever we have that would constitute a heart. A… soul to soul."

"Why are you such a prick?" Harry asks quietly.

Draco laughs and it sounds dark and bloody. "Typical."

"It's a valid question," Harry replies. The dancing fire no longer challenges him – it almost seems normal now, seeing the flames leap about the room like sparking, orange creatures. He relaxes. "You were a prick to me. I'm dead, aren't I?"

"Point taken," Draco says. "But I don't think that's the question you should ask me. You should be asking yourself why you _think_ I'm a prick."

"Oh, how very existential," Harry says, unimpressed. "I think you're a prick because you've done some truly terrible things, Malfoy. Killing Percy, for instance. And killing me. Not to mention causing Dumbledore's death, and tearing my life apart at the seams.

"But if you look at it, aren't you the cause of all those deaths too? Dumbledore is dead because you're alive. Percy is dead because you're alive –"

"Don't you dare," Harry says quietly, almost passively. "You're not blaming this on me."

"Just think about it. You Gryffindors seem to do so little of that. Take you time; I mean, we've got all of eternity."

"So it's my fault for living?" Harry retorts. "Well, seems you've helped me with that little problem, haven't you?"

"_Touché_."

They were silent. In their silence, the fire grew larger; now the fireplace seemed to be half the length of the wall, filled with deep, roaring reds and oranges inside, a coppery furnace warming their non-selves.

"But really," Draco says, "we're not all that different."

"We are," Harry says with absolute confidence. "I'd bet my life on it."

"Ha ha, very funny. Now, listen to me. Think about it. We're both a part of – of sin, if you will. I have the sin of wrath, and you of pride – though it doesn't really matter what sin we have, just that we have one. We're both sinners, when you get right down to it."

"Your point?" Harry doesn't feel like arguing; he doesn't feel at all.

"You should hate the sin, Harry. Never the –"

"Sinner," Harry finishes. Harry glances back to the fireplace and isn't surprised to find it's now the side of one wall, burning as brightly and innocently as ever, flames licking the ceiling and covering the room.

Draco coughs, and it sounds like blood boiling. He speaks: "We've both killed, we've both –"

"But you killed because you were – were evil, I kill because otherwise you'd kill _us_ –"

"Don't get confused with means and ends, Harry," Harry's composure stumbles when he hears his name lifted from Draco's lips; spoken like it had a special meaning, a new meaning. "When we're done, there's a dead person and that's that."

"See, that's the difference. You want to, we need to. There's evil, and there's necessity."

"We both need to. Evil is relative, Harry. Was it evil when Brutus killed Caesar? Brutus was fighting for a cause – he wanted a world free of tyrants. Would you consider that evil? – no, don't answer that, just listen to me. I'm fighting for an ideal, Harry," Draco growls, forcing the words into Harry. "Not your world, but our own. A new world – a free world. And what are you fighting for?"

"A new world, a free world," Harry says slowly. "But for _everyone_."

"Oh, we are too. A free world for everyone." Draco crosses his arms.

"But in your world the only people in it are people like you. You'll cull the rest out. That's _your _free world."

"Yeah, so? Social Darwinism, Harry. I deserve to be in that free world." Draco glances over, and his eyes are the colour of wrought silver. "_We_ deserve to be in that free world, Harry." He reaches over and grasps Harry's hand. Harry pulls away. "You're strong-hearted, you're noble, and you're a sinner too. Why not come with us?"

"Come with you _where_? We're _dead_, Draco."

"It's the principle of the matter, Harry. Look around us. Doesn't look much like purgatory anymore, does it?"

It was true. The fireplace, once small and comforting, was no more – instead, the room was the fireplace. The fire was everywhere – crawling along the walls, eating at the table, the chairs, skipping across the ground, screaming and crackling as it consumed. It crawled along Harry's legs, spinning across his body, sliding down his arms.

"We're sinners, we've killed. We're going to Hell. And I'm asking you to come with me." Draco reaches out and offers his hand to Harry. Flames slither along his arms and down around his wrist. Harry looks to him, his face expressionless.

And then, distantly, Harry hears voices. Soft voices, quiet voices. Dim, like the distant crackle of a badly tuned radio – but they are there, and they're familiar, and shockingly warm. And he feels like his waking up, shaking this strange, vivid dream from his mind, shedding a layer of skin, and crawling out of his cocoon.

"No, Draco," Harry says. He knows the voices, and he understands them. "I'm not going with you." Harry steps forward, and gently, ever so gently he touches his lips to Draco's. "But I understand now, and you're right. We're not that different. Not really."

And he's awake. He feels pain and hurt and misery and he loves it. Like surfacing from the water, taking a new breath of air.

"Oh, Harry!" Hermione cries, hugging him around the neck.

"Harry!" Ron gasps, his face pale, and his lips bloodied. He holds Harry about the shoulders and cries into his muddied shirt.

They stay like that for a long time, and Harry feels remarkably, wonderfully cold.


End file.
